User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Plight of the Unmourned (Chapter 1)
Part 1 "Each event is preceded by prophecy. But without the hero, there is no event." -Zurin Arcus | The Underking In the waning years of the Third Era, a prisoner born on a certain day to uncertain parents, was brought under guard, without explanation, to Morrowind, ignorant of the role he was to play in that nation’s history… Rain pattered against the hull of the ship, and the Dunmer stirred in his sleep. He saw the Ashlands in his dream. A windswept land scape of hardpan deserts, giant lizards and insect like creatures, and sometime deserts made simply of cinders, like the whole place was one dying fire. The wind was stirred up now, in his dream, and tore across the land, blowing debris aside in its path. And over it all, a woman’s voice spoke. They have taken you from the Imperial City. First by carriage, and now by boat. To the east: to Morrowind. Fear not, for I am watchful. You have been chosen. One sentence rang in his head, not spoken by the woman. He saw them, rather than heard them, and he knew that they’d stick with him from that moment on. Many fall, but one remains. And up above, the rain still fell on the boat, and above even that the moons spun around Nirn in their unending dance. Lightning crashed. “Wake up.” A voice spoke. Different this time, a man. More solid than the woman’s had been. More real. “We’re here.” The Dunmer stirred again, groaning. “Why are you shaking?” “Are you okay? Wake up.” Scire’s eyes snapped open and the person standing over him, another Dunmer, paused halfway down to shake his shoulder. Scire looked this way and that around the cabin they were in. It was small. Quaint, even, had it not seemed so keenly of body odor. “Stand up.” The elf said, offering Scire his hand, who grasped it thankfully and let himself be hauled to his feet. “There you go.” The strange Dunmer said, narrowing his eyes slightly, the expression tugging at his scar. “You were dreaming.” “I was.” Scire confirmed shortly, then coughed. His voice was rough, and his throat felt dry. The Dunmer, with his dark red eyes and long facial scar over his brow, dressed in nothing more than a pair of torn trousers, appraised him for a moment. “What’s your name?” “Scire.” Scire growled, rubbing at his throat. “Your’s?” Jiub stared at his passively, no expression on his face, before answering, “Jiub.” Scire cocked his head at him. “''Jude''?” He repeated back, questioning. “No, Jiub.” Scire frowned. “Oh.” Jiub made a sound of consideration, before shrugging and looking off. “Well, not even last night’s storm could wake you. I heard them say we’ve reached Morrowind, I’m sure they’ll let us go.” Scire cracked a smile at that, although it wasn’t a jovial one. Because they kidnap people just to let them go. Scire thought, the thoughts bitterer than the taste in his mouth. That was how it worked, of course. Scire opened his mouth to speak, but Jiub silenced him. “Quiet, here comes the guard.” It wasn’t a moment after Jude spoke that a guard appeared in the doorway to their joke of a cabin. The guard, an Imperial—they were all Imperials on this ship—gave him an appraising look. Scire thought he say a frown in the corners of the man’s mouth and had the urge to frown back. He held it, figuring it’d only get him knocked over the head. “This is where you get off.” The guard said, causing Scire to frown anyway. “We’re in Morrowind?” He asked. “Why-“ He was overridden. “Come with me.” The guard said, turning on his heel, and walking away without further questions. Scire sighed and, casting Jiub one last look, he followed behind the guard. He was lead up to second deck of the ship, surprised by the lack of crew present, and then up onto the main deck. There he was greeted by another guard, who gave Scire barely even a passing glance. “Head down to the docks. They’ll show you to the census office.” Census office? The hell was he going to do at a census office? Scire’s original escort stopped here, so he headed down to the docks himself, where a soldier in full regalia stopped him. This man wore Imperial Chainmail, and was likely from out of province, Scire imagined. “You’ve finally arrived!” The guard said, like it was some matter of importance. Scire glared at him. “But we our records don’t show from where.” “You know where.” Scire croaked. The soldier blinked at him, surprised as the retort. “I do?” “Yeah. Your mum.” The soldier’s jaw dropped, baffled. “I’m sorry, I-” “I’d be sorry too. She’s horrific looking.” Scire said, again throat aching, but he pressed on. “But then, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?” “Look, I just need to-” “I came from the City.” Scire interrupted. “But you already knew that.” With that, he pushed past the soldier, who was left sputtering, trying to explain that he really hadn’t known, his mother notwithstanding. Scire practically stormed into the census office, having a thoroughly rough day already, and he’d only just woken up. The census office was very, well, office-looking. A guard stood by one door, keeping a close eye on Scire. An elderly man in a plain brown robe was seated behind a desk, and he looked up at Scire with a smile. “Ah, yes, we’ve been expecting you.” He motioned to some papers on his desk. “You’ll have to be recorded before you’re officially released…” He trailed off as Scire came to loom over the desk. Scire was tall, even for a Dunmer, and bulky from his time as a warrior. Not many knew this—except for archers, of course--but it took considerable strength to hold back the three-hundred pound force of a fully drawn bow for more than a few moments, and Scire had been able to hold a bow drawn and steady for what he thought was a record amount of time. And, aside from the apparent strength of his body, the scars that decorated his face always tended to make him look a bit more intimidating than he felt. “I want to know what’s going on here. Now.” The old man gave him a puzzled look. “We’re recording your information then releasing you.” “No.” Scire said firmly, voice hard. “I want to know what I’m doing here. Why you people took me in the first place.” He leaned forward and placed his palms flat on the desk. “And you’d better start giving me answers, so help me…” The old man held up his hands in surrender and cast a panicked look past Scire, at the guard. “Sir, I really don’t know anything. I’m just a census and excise agent!” He protested. The self-proclaimed census agent looked down hurriedly at his desk. “Uh… here! This was left for you.” The man hurried picked up a page of parchment and extended it to Scire. The Dunmer snatched it out of his hands. He furrowed his brow as he read it, looking more and more displeased. Scire, You have been given these directions and a package of documents. Do not show them to anyone. Do not attempt to read the documents in the package. The package has been sealed, and your tampering will be discovered and punished. '' ''Follow these directions. '' ''Proceed to the town of Balmora in Vvardenfell District. Report to a man named Caius Cosades. He will be your superior and patron; you will follow his orders. His residence is not known, but ask at the cornerclub called "South Wall". People there will know where to find Caius Cosades. When you report to Caius Cosades, deliver the package of documents to him, and wait for further orders. '' ''Remember. You owe your life and freedom to the Emperor. Serve him well, and you will be rewarded. Betray him, and you will suffer the fate of all traitors. '' ''I have the Honor to prepare this at the direction of his Most Sovereign Majesty the Emperor Uriel Septim, '' ''Glabrio Bellienus Personal Secretary to the Emperor '' Scire was just confused by the end of reading that. ''Who in Oblivion is Glabrio Bellienus? And he didn’t appreciate the threats in that. Owe my life and freedom. '' ''Suffer the fate of all traitors. He snorted at that. He owed jack and shit to Uriel Septim. If anything, Uriel Septim owed him! And they didn’t give him a title or anything in the address either even though he had, like, five. Typical Empire. “And you don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this?” “Well, I mean, I read the note, but it and the package just arrived with you onboard the ship.” Scire rubbed as the crease in his brow with his finger and thumb, feeling himself aging a hundred years because of this whole fiasco. “Alright.” He sighed, relenting. “Give me that package.” The agent, Socucius Ergalla the nameplate on his desk read, suddenly looked quite excited, possibly because he knew he was going to get Scire’s census information now. Socucius pulled a blank piece of parchment in front of him, and wet his quill in ink. “Name?” Socucius asked as he picked up the package of documents and handed them to Scire, who reluctantly took them. “Scire.” “Age?” “55.” “Eye colour?” “Black.” Socucius looked up and considered him for a moment, before shrugging and writing it down. “Race?” “Seriously, man?” Socucius gave a light chuckle at Scire’s outburst and wrote Dunmer. “Home city and province?” “Imperial City in Cyrodiil.” “Next of kin?” “Hawke Herron, same location.” Scire caught Socucius mouthing that name to himself, and rolled his eyes. He supposed it was a bit of an odd name, but he’d grown used to it. “Well,” Socucius said, “that’s all. You’re a free man. Here, take this.” He reached underneath his desk and produced a heavy purse of gold. “Your release fee. 80 Septims.” Scire snorted, but took it, and tied the purse to his belt. He was dressed in a set of nondescript Dunmer clothes which had been provided to him on his first day out of the Imperial City, the trousers of which were held up by a surprisingly sturdy netch leather belt. The outfit had confused him when he had first received it, they had been in Cyrodiil at the time, but now it made since. He turned from the desk and passed out the door into the long corridors that made up the rest of the census building. As he walked through them, and made for an exit, something on a table to his right caught his eye. A pile of lockpicks, a few gold coins, and a dagger, the latter of which was driven point first into the table, sat there. It didn’t have a sheath, but it was a small weapon, and he could likely just slip it into the back of his belt. This’ll show those Imperial bastards. He decided, scooping the coins and lockpicks into his purse, and then retrieving the dagger. He tested its weight, spinning the weapon around his fingers in a practiced knife trick, before deftly tucking it in the back of his belt. With that, he exited the census building. Seyda Neen greeted him. A nowhere town, on the coast of Vvardenfell, known only for the building he had just exited. It was a dump. He walked a bit further, before finding a bench, and promptly collapsing onto it. He dropped his head into his hands, tried to smooth out his blond hair, and went over the events of the past few days in his mind. ---- He had been out hunting, in the forest, just across the bridge, not out of view from the City. He liked to travel out often, on his own, to get in touch with his youth and to think. He’d taken his children out when they were young, to teach them to shoot, to track, and to feed themselves. But now they were all grown, and he was back to going through the familiar motions of the hunt on his own once again. It had been in these woods, the same ones he’d taught his children in, that he’d been crouched with his bow in his hand, preparing to line up a shot with a deer that had crossed into his sight, when he’d heard a footstep behind him. He’d turned his head quickly, but not nearly fast enough. Someone slipped a cloth sack over his head, and as he dropped his bow, scrabbling to fight to take it off, he’d heard running feet as more people had rushed him. They’d held down his arms and legs, relieved him of his weapons, and bound him at the wrists, ankles, and knees, like an animal for slaughter. He’d talked at them then, cracking jokes, sometimes insults, trying to be generally affable, but none of them made a peep. Eventually, the game had been trying to get them to just say something. It hadn’t been long, at least he imagined, it was difficult to track time when your head was in a sack, until they’d thrown him into the back of a carriage, dropping him on the floor. There’d been a guard in there, a man who had told him not to move unless he wanted to get hurt. Scire had gone out of his way to disobey him, and although he wasn’t punched or kicked, he had heard the drawing of a blade. He’d stopped squirming around after that. He lay on the floor of the carriage for some time, before the sack had finally been pulled off of his head. The guard, who had only identified himself as “Mr. Soldier” (Scire assumed that was some kind of weird joke), gave him water and food. From his position on the floor of the carriage he’d attempted to peer out of the windows, but the shutters had been drawn and Scire would’ve only been able to see the sky anyway. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that the food he’d been fed had been drugged (And it hadn’t been very good food either) and he’d passed unconscious. When he’d next woken up, it’d been on that ship, shaken awake by Jiub. ---- Scire sat back, sighing. There were so many questions. The Empire had kidnapped him. Why? And not just some small sect of it, the order had come from the Emperor himself. Even if Scire wanted to he couldn’t ignore such a thing. You didn’t say no to the most powerful man in the world. And what did they need him for that they couldn’t just ask him to do it? Did they need him that badly that they couldn’t risk him saying no? He wasn’t a fan of the Emperor, anything to do with the Septim suddenly put him in a mood, but if they need him this madly his conscience wouldn’t let him say no. He was hungry, but there didn’t appear to be a cornerclub in town. Scire suddenly smiled. Cornerclubs. Ash falls. Everyone spitting the word “n’wah” about like it was the next best thing after skooma. Perhaps Morrowind wouldn’t be that bad to get in after all, he hadn’t realized how nostalgic he’d been for it. Well, perhaps not the ash falls. But everything else. Balmora was a city though. It’d have all the accommodations he need. And answers to his questions. Part 2 The little Breton woman sat on her heels, her eyes closed tightly, as if she was in pain.She rubbed her stomach, trying to relieve herself of the phantom pains. She did that a lot these days, for some reason, like an old man whose bones ached before a storm. And, technically, she was old. She was over fifty years old, but she had changed very little since her days battling Jagar Tharn. Her hair was as red as ever, but she did look a little more weary. There were lines around her eyes, thanks to her raising four children, but she remained youthful and tireless. To her irritation, the scars that covered her were still there. Hawke Herron sighed, eventually giving up on trying to get rid of the pain. It was worthless, the pain wouldn’t leave. Better that she got productive and did something, like wrestle a bear or teach Claude how to use a weapon. But fighting with an irritable creature or even a bear just didn’t sound fun at the moment. Especially not with Scire gone. There would be no one to make jokes and bring the tension down a bit. “Where is Scire?” Hawke mumbled, wandering around their home, stopping to scratch behind the ears of the dog, Dog. It had been a few days since she had seen him. He had gone hunting, but he was usually back within a day or two, but it had been almost a week. After they had toppled Jagar’s throne, Hawke and Scire had pooled their riches together, and bought a luxurious marble mansion for themselves to raise a family in. It took a lot of time for both of them to get used to, as Hawke had spent her childhood in a tiny peasant home, and Scire had lived in a yurt. It did give a lot of growing room. As Hawke had discovered after their second child, Marius, had been born, you could go a few days without having to interact with anyone else. With a multitude of bedrooms and more than a few acres, Scire and Hawke owned a massive manor, along with a few fields where servants grew and brought them plants, and a herd of cows. They owned three horses and a nice stable, so the pair had little reason to ever leave the area, except for when Scire wanted to go hunting. She hoped he hadn’t died. That would be sad, unless he left her some amazing riches that she would only get if he died. Hawke smiled at the thought, before shaking it from her head. Probably not. They had received the same thing from Uriel, and Ashkhans didn’t have a lot of money. “Ah…” The Augment sighed. “I should probably go out and look for him…” She rolled his eyes. “Stendarr, Scire, you need to get yourself together…” Hawke whistled at the dog, and he got to his feet, padding along with the woman. She had trained him well, as he was technically her dog, so she hadn’t let Scire be too involved. Hawke stepped into the living room, noticing their third-eldest child. Nineteen year-old Serila was curled up in the corner, reading a thick book as she twirled her curly black hair. Hawke was always reminded of Scire’s sister Libi, whom she had only known for a short time, with the large, angular eyes and dark pupils. The only difference between her and Farseer Libi was the fact that Serila had a much lighter complexion, due to the fact she was a half-breed, not a pure-blood Velothi. She was a pretty beautiful girl, but it was understandable why she and Scire were in conflict so much. It hurt Scire to be around her, given how much she looked like his sister, whom he hadn’t seen in a while. When Serila looked up and saw Hawke watching her, she instantly began to read aloud, from the book of Vivec’s sermons, “Ayem took a netchman’s wife and said: ‘I am the Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. In you is an image an a seven-syllable spell, AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK, which you will repeat to it until mystery comes.’” “Oh, stuff it, kid.” Hawke rolled her eyes. “Your father isn’t even here to get mad at you. Really, I could care less.” Serila stuck her tongue out at Hawke, setting down the book. She glanced at the dog before standing up, letting her purple gown fall to the floor. “Going somewhere, mom?” She asked, bending down to pet the dog. “Yeah, your father went missing.” Hawke sighed. “Probably wandered off and broke his leg, or something. I’m going to look for him.” She paused, before continuing. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, so you’ll have to watch the house and make sure no bandits kill everything.” Serila grinned, calling up the stairs, “CLAUDE! I’m in charge!” There was a crash, and a muffled, “Hell no!” The aforementioned boy came sprinting down the stairs, looking absolutely distraught and terrified. Fifteen year-old Claude was the baby of the family, with the pointed ears and blonde hair of his father. However, the resemblance pretty much ended there. He was as pale as his mother, with her almond-shaped eyes and slight figure. He bounced around, being rather hyperactive. When he reached the bottom of the steps he pushed his sister, slightly, but she quickly caught herself and twisted his arm behind his back, leading to a whimper. “We’ll be fine.” Serila smiled at her mother, sweetly. Hawke nodded, trusting her children enough not to kill each other. “And, if not, I’m sure I can get Agatha-” “No!” Serila gasped, before shaking her head, trying not to look afraid. “Uh, no, I’ll be fine, no need to get the witch.” Hawke chuckled, glad that the threat of a powerful witch that enjoyed zapping people in their crotches had worked. “Alright, Serila, make sure Claude practices his swordplay, and don’t let him go to the city unless you’re with him, and make sure he goes to bed on time, and-” “I got it.” Serila rolled her eyes. “Dad could be dying, woman!” Hawke smiled, turned on her heel, and left. The dog followed quickly on her heels, and she grabbed one of Scire’s extra boots on her way out. She held it out to the mutt, and let him sniff it. He walked around in a circle for a bit, trying to get the scent, before taking off, into the Blackwoods. Hawke darted after him. She probably could’ve outdistanced the dog easily, but she had to hold off, as it was the one leading her around. Together they spent hours traversing the entirety of the Nibenay Basin, following the trail of a man who had travelled for days hunting. She didn’t run into many problems, though she did end up having to strangle an ogre because it wanted to eat Dog, but that was small potatoes compared to some of the things she and Scire had encountered over the years. Dog led her all over the place, through Blackwood Forest. She figured that they were beginning to near the border of Cyrodiil. Eventually, they reached a small clearing, and Hawke bent down. Someone had knelt down there, probably Scire so that he could hide in the grass and still be able to shoot at a deer. When Dog stopped, she held her breath, waiting to find the bloody body of the only person she loved, but there wasn’t any blood. Plus, Dog wasn’t frantically barking. He didn’t seem concerned at all. She stepped over, and then she saw it. Black Bow, Scire’s favorite weapon. Hawke drew in a breath. He never parted with it, not even when he slept! So… Why did he leave it now? Chapter 2 (This whole series written by me and Apollo42) Category:Blog posts Category:Stories Category:The Legend of Nirn